Hands of Blood
by John Chao
Summary: Goris looks at the ruins of his race, and swears to rebuild it. (Chapter two up!)
1. Horrigan

            Goris watched out from the back of the last remaining Poseidon oil tanker at the Enclave oilrig.  Blood dripped down his claws to the sea-splashed deck.  It was the blood that he had sworn to spill, human blood, the blood of the mad human that had killed the leader of his Pack.  Humans didn't have a word for the hate that had filled his heart then, humans could never understand the depth and acuteness of the pure detestation that had filled his heart.  How he had longed to tear off the head of the then-nameless murderer, to take his still-beating heart in his jaws and feel it slowly stop!  That which was most dear to him, his Pack, had been taken away, and he knew he could not bring it back.  But he could honor their memory, and send the _humans_ who had killed him screaming to hell.

            How he remembered the battle with the "Frank Horrigan" that murdered Gruthar-the-Exalted.  How he relished the red spray of blood in the air, the hot tang of death in his mouth, the sensation of his claws breaking through the hard shells of the humans to slide into the soft, vulnerable meat within.  The woman that he chose to follow, that "Michelle," had programmed the heavy gun turrets that ringed that final room to fire upon his hated foe.  Although many bullets had sparked off the steel plates of Horrigan's armor, some found their way inside to the human within.

            Horrigan had laughed at the bullets, but Goris had run in.  While Horrigan fired massive, lethal shards of blazing energy, Goris had batted his weapon hand away like one of the bees that had pestered him when he was young and his skin was soft- the weapon had bite, but not enough to stop the foot-long talons of his right hand from tearing deep into Horrigan's proud armor and ripping the man to the floor.

            The ensuring carnage slammed Goris and his hated foe apart, the heavy machine gun turrets never stopping their fire.  Michelle had never been the best in a fight, not having the aim or the nerves to really stand up under gunfire, so she had picked that moment to duck behind the computer console, away from the fire.  As Goris picked himself up, he saw Horrigan do the same, raising his arm-mounted cannon and blazing fire.  Goris once again found himself able to duck under the fire, diving underneath Horrigan's guard to bury his claws into his soft, fleshy lungs.

            The air had whistled out past his claws, and he took the time to look into into the eyes of the man who had ruined everything for him.  He did not see what he had been looking for, not behind the shining white lights behind his eyes.  Disgusted, Goris had lanced his left hand's claws deep into Horrigan's neck, where the armor was thin and weakly emplaced.

            Hot blood had showered onto Goris's waiting skin, and he reveled in the sensation of his foe's red cascade.

            Michelle walked up the stairs to the back of the deck, to watch the Poseidon oilrig's final moments.  She had discarded the heavy armor she wore earlier, and was now wearing the shorts and light top she wore when she knew she was safe.

            She saw Goris with his back to her, facing the oilrig.  Blood dripped down his body- he had removed the cloak, as he had no reason to hide his identity here.  There were many bullet wounds all over his body, but he didn't seem to notice them.  The memories of the terrible battle, where Goris had raged amongst the astonished Enclave guards like a tornado of extended claws and snapping jaws, filtered through a haze of blood and death.  

            The moment she stepped out of the small structure sheltering the stairs, she was whipped by the harsh winds of the open sea.  "Hey, Goris," she said, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering.

            Goris turned his head slowly toward her, and she could see something changed in his eyes.   "Hello, Michelle."

            Goris had always been a little formal- she'd never been sure why, but it would be too much trouble to make him change.  She forced a smile, despite the grimness of his expression and the cold of the salt spray that cut through her thin layers of clothing.  "You did good back there."

            He nodded slowly, then turned his head back to the oilrig. 


	2. Ruins

The oilrig sat there, like a rock in the sea, slowly shrinking as they sped away.  Goris stared at it a long time- he felt greatly fulfilled, having avenged his Alpha's death, but there was still a rending hole in him where his pack once was.  Without a pack, he knew he was nothing- a lone deathclaw is as miserable as falcon with shorn wings.

The salt spray irritated his wounds, but he easily ignored it.  He'd gone through worse, and the bullets would be forced out of his body in only a few hours.  The wastes had been kind to his people, and had blessed them with a secure seat at the height of the wasteland hierarchy.

He felt something light and soft on his still-bloody shoulder, and he turned his head just a little to see Michelle's hand resting there.  She smiled, and although he still needed practice gauging human expression, he thought he could tell it was forced.  He respected her greatly, despite the fact that she was not like him.  Like all humans, she was soft and weak and ugly, but he could see past that.  She had led his mission of vengeance, as well as saving her own tribe- an association of humans only loosely bonded, nowhere near the pack-bond that his people shared.  He had to respect her ingenuity and courage in getting so much done, though, and felt a degree of pride to be seen with her.

"Gruthar would have been proud to see you back there." she assured him.

He felt a twinge of terrible pain at the mention of his lost Alpha's name, but held it inside him.  Perhaps she was right, though.  He had honored the memory of his pack by tasting the blood of their killers, and he would do all he could to continue to honor that memory.  How, though?  He was, after all, only one.

"It is not enough.  The pack is dead," he said.

Michelle looked at her feet, and Goris put an arm around her, claws in their sheaths.  From his previous studies, humans often enjoyed physical contact- he knew he didn't mind feeling that small bit of warmth in the face of the cold sea spray.

Dakanas staggered up the stairs to the deck, trying to hold his lunch in.  He fucking hated sailing, ships, and water in general: he only agreed to come on the fucking tanker in the first place because of the promise of treasure and booty- _Michelle's fine booty_, he managed to think to himself.  The bright light of the sun above did little to make him feel better, but he was a little comforted by the feeling of the gauss pistol at his hip.

The moment he stepped out of the shadowy corridors in the belly of the ship, his eyes were dazzled by the sun reflecting over the sea.  He quickly threw a hand to his eyes, squinting and cursing, trying to make out what was going on before puking.  He could see Goris- the deathclaw's massive form was unmistakable- and, huddling close to him, was Michelle, wearing those fine, fine short shorts and that flimsy top.  _Damn, deathclaw get all the women_.

He smiled, though- Goris had been through a lot recently, more than pretty much everyone but Michelle, and was taking it well, being a man about it.  Let him get a few hugs- better Michelle than him, for sure.  He looked a little closer, and saw the little rivers of blood still running down his skin.

He managed to stagger over to the railing, calling out a cautious, "Hey, Michelle!" before squeezing his eyes shut, fighting back his last meal, and immediately regretting speaking.

Goris looked out at the oilrig, knowing the explosion had to come.  It began as simply a great flash of light- he was far enough away not to be harmed by the explosion, but the brightness still hurt his eyes.  He saw clouds of steam rising from the oceans as the water instantly boiled away, and a deep ripple spreading outwards along the surface, strong enough to rock the tanker.  Along with it came the sound, an echoing cacophony unlike anything he'd ever heard.  He could hear it ringing from the steel, bouncing from the water, impacting his own flesh while he stood listening.  The humans had so much power at their disposal!  How could deathclaw live when they had to fear such retribution?

Lightning flashed, high overhead.  Due to his learning, he knew that the nuclear explosion had caused magnetic storms, but he had never imagined what it would be like.  The lightning moved without thunderclap, wavering high in the upper atmosphere.  Almost a shadow of a storm, a twisting vortex of dancing lights that caught his eye and mesmerized him.  _No_. he realized.  _We cannot survive when our enemies are so strong_.

The humans he traveled with all wore hard shells that made them more difficult to harm.  He could not, simply because he could not fit into any of their armor.  They often wielded weapons, many of them having great power, that he could not, simply because his hands were the wrong shape or size.  He had seen the overwhelming lethality of the gatling laser in the mutant's hands, had personally witnessed Cassidy or Vic or Dakanas instantly visit death upon foes a hundred yards away or further.  He had seen Michelle stand up to entire clips on full automatic, sparks flying off of the powered armor that made her a goliath the bullets harmlessly ricochets away from her.

He turned away from the explosion, hurrying back into the bowels of the ship.  He wanted to see Sulik.

A whisper in his ear.  "Look upwards."

Sulik quickly glanced upwards at the bend in the hallway, just as Goris stepped into sight, settling over his body the beat-up cloak he wore everywhere he went.  The spirits told him Goris had to hide himself, that deathclaw were hated and feared in most places, but Sulik already knew that.  He wasn't stupid.

"Sulik, let me see your hammer."  Goris said shortly.  Sulik looked at him, a bit confused- Goris had never asked to see any sort of weapons before, and now certainly seemed an odd time to be asking.  He stood, reaching over to his super sledge and lifting it up with a small grunt of exertion.  He trusted Goris, though.  More than once, they had together rampaged through enemy numbers, him wielding hammer, spear, or knife, Goris gutting and crushing their enemy in his bare hands.

He lifted the hammer up, handle towards him, and Goris took it in one hand, almost as if it were a toy.  In the hands of the massive beast, it looked little more than a carpentry tool, almost ridiculously small.  Within the tight confines of the ship's halls, Goris had little room to swing it, but he did flip it in the air for a while, concentration apparent on his reptilian features.  He was clearly an amateur, unused to having any sort of weapon in his hands, but, judging from the beast's focus and intelligence, he could doubtlessly become fairly proficient in a short amount of time.

"Easy- we don't want to let out too many pain-spirits, man."  Sulik laughed, ducking just in time to avoid the sledge slamming into his chest- it instead made a deep dent in the steel wall, setting up a ringing echo.  Goris stopped, handing the hammer back to Sulik.

"Thank you," Goris says, moving back down the halls.


End file.
